


The captain

by secretspaceskeleton



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Ficlet, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24412192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretspaceskeleton/pseuds/secretspaceskeleton
Summary: Before he was Captain, he was just a captain."He felt like he was full to the brim, about to burst open and flood his apartment with blood, guts, and single malt whiskey. A fitting way to die, the man thought. A fitting way to die."Short fic on Haddock before he met Tintin.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	The captain

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write much fanfiction and this is my first attempt at angst, so apologies if its not great. Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated. 
> 
> Haddock is my favorite and I love some good ole' angst so I might make more of these someday. We'll see.

It reeked. Of sweat, tobacco, alcohol, and the sea. The smells blended together in a terrible cacophony, infecting every last inch of the small, shabby apartment. The floorboards creaked and the walls moaned. Broken glass scattered the floor and piles of bottles teetered and shook, permanently in the state just before crashing down. Water dripped from the ceiling and pooled next to one of the many dusty boxes full of miscellaneous souvenirs and memorabilia. The wind blew across a bottle on the windowsill, whistling a haunting tune that seemed to reflect the sad state of the apartment and its disheveled inhabitant. He was hunched over a small, rickety table, slowly rocking to and fro, nearly empty bottle in hand. Rocking, back…and forth…back…and forth, as if he were still on his ship, traversing the dark and infinite expanse of the sea. Hair ruffled in chaos and white undershirt stained and soaked with sweat, the man let forth a wet and gurgling groan.

He’d been home just two days. Exhausted from a long sail, the captain had scurried into a pub as soon as they’d hit land. He stumbled home after the bartender cut him off and finished three more bottles of his favorite whiskey before falling asleep, bottle crashing to the floor. In the morning, he chased his swimming head away with another bottle and then another, and another, until he could no longer swallow. He felt like he was full to the brim, about to burst open and flood his apartment with blood, guts, and single malt whiskey. A fitting way to die, the man thought. A fitting way to die.

He wasn’t just cursed. He was haunted. By his ancestors, his past, the bottle, and his very own soul. He knew the figures weren’t real, at least on some level. But when he was like this, they were as tangible as the alcohol coursing through his veins. They taunted him. They chided and scolded him. And even worse, they would, on occasion, pity him. He hated that the most. The hateful curses spewed from Francis he could take; could ignore with another swig. The shaking of his grandfather’s head and the waggling of his wrinkled finger rolled off his back like a light spring drizzle. But when they looked at him with sunken eyes and tight frown, when his mother and father sighed in disappointment, that was when he broke. He sobbed, racked with guilt and spite and a deep, blossoming, stabbing hate for himself. Tears spilled forth, mixing with the pooling whiskey on the floor. The captain’s whole body shook with violent, uncontrollable spasms. His hat – perhaps the one thing he treasured – fell the floor and slowly soaked up the tear and whiskey concoction.

“Pathetic. You pathetic, miserable, worthless cur. You should be dead. This fine whiskey and honorable title are wasted on you,” He moaned between sobs. “An absolute waste. A failure you are; to your name, your crew, your own degenerate self. Absolutely pathetic.”

He would sit in his old, splintering chair and sob, crying for days until his body was empty of whiskey and he could imbibe once more. And thus, the cycle continued. He would drink, rage, cry, and drink again. Occupying the days and weeks until his ship would once again cast off. Chugging bottles while bunkered up in his quarters and sipping his flask when on deck. Some of his crew talked, he knew they did. Every sailor had his vice, but their captain was truly enslaved to his. When he wasn’t drinking, he was smoking that ancient pipe, and when he wasn’t doing either, he was most definitely passed out in his own filth. Once, when he was drooling and seemingly unconscious, he overheard his first mate talking of mutiny. He was furious and hurt, but he couldn’t blame them. After all, he wasn’t acting much like a captain should anyways. As he began to nod off, he decided he wouldn’t allow them the satisfaction. This would be his last sail – his last, shameful hurrah. He would drink all his whiskey and rum, smoke all his tobacco, put on his faithful hat and coat, tuck that infernal crumpled note into the breast pocket, and throw himself into the sea. His last thought before the merciful bliss of sleep was of the graceful waves engulfing his body, swallowing and dragging him into the depths. The sea would kiss his salty skin and embrace him with the forgiving warmth that only a lover could. Yes, the captain sighed. With the warmth of a lover.

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any formatting errors, although I have posted before I am still new and getting used to things. An old dog can learn new tricks, but it unfortunately takes much longer.


End file.
